I have a friend JR who stumbled upon a beautiful woman outside the Kanye West/US Weekly party a few weeks back. They exchanged numbers, they went on a few dates and were in communication constantly. Though he argues that boys cannot be smitten (”that word is too feminine to describe a man, D”), I argue that this is indeed the best word to describe him. He’d arrived at the point where he’d begun sentences with,” Cherise said blah, blah, blah” and ”Cherise did blah, blah, blah”. See? Smitten.
Finally came the day when they had sex. They’d done a typical date– dinner (Ideya) and a movie (Why Did I Get Married)– and headed back to JR’s house Uptown. One thing led to another, and JR later described the encounter as ”overall not bad.” However, after he’d ”reached joy,” he was struck with a feeling he didn’t expect.
”I immediately wanted to kick her out,” he told me. ”Or just leave the house. At least the bedroom. I had to get away from her.”
Being the nice guy that he is, he cleaned himself up offered her a warm towel (it’s rude not to offer, by the way) and slept on the farthest edge of his bed. He didn’t get much sleep that night as he stayed up thinking about why he was so desperate to flee from a girl he really liked– or at least, one he thought he did.
”That 15 seconds after sex is the moment of truth,” JR told me. ”It’s like your unconscious takes over. If you want to get back in the bed and be with her, talk to her, go another round? You like her. You wanna run? Then you definitely don’t. You can always determine just how you feel about someone after you cum. Call it post-nut syndrome.”
He kept Cherise around for a few weeks after, but she was demoted from potential wifey to just another chick. Immediately, the Cherise says this, Cherise says that stopped. He never looked at her the same after he wanted to run after he’d cum.
I asked my other man-friends about this phenomenon and universally they empathized with JR. Gary, who is not so polite as JR, cops to just making an excuse and leaving if he’s had sex at her house or calls a cab (and pays for it) if the woman he gets the urge to run from is at his house. ”There is nothing worse than lying next to someone you don’t like,” Gary confesses. ”Then she asks you to cuddle and she wants to talk… I can’t fake interest if I don’t have it anymore.”
â€œSo let me get this right,” I ask. ”You’re really digging a woman and because you don’t want to talk or cuddle or chill after sex, you just dead it?”
He shakes his head and says roughly the same thing JR did when pressed ”Not dead it. Demote her. I’ll still hit it.”
I thought this was crass, horrid and immature. What type of men am I surrounding myself with? They are 30-something (or damn near) and still afraid of commitment?! Are they all soul-less whores on the hunt who lose interest once they conquer? And these are the Good Black Men I’ve been raving about, the ones I use to counter the frequent arguments that there are no good black men left. Have I been wrong?
I put my male crew on hiatus for a bit due their appalling insensitivity. They’ve made me doubt them specifically, as well as men in general. I hate that I can’t be their cheerleader anymore.
With the men on break, I decide to spend more time with Tiffany aka Baby Tiff, a recently re-discovered friend from waaay back. (She’s the little sister of an old friend and I didn’t even know she lived up here.) We meet up at Night of the Cookers, my least favorite Brooklyn restaurant, and over shared salmon fettuccine (that and the catfish and grits are the only decent things on the menu), Tiff, newly 24, asks to meet the fellas. She’s been in New York for a bit and hasn’t discovered any that are worthy of her time. I always talk about all these dudes I know, so she wants an intro.
I shake my head furiously and explain why (lest she think my great dude talk is pure bullshit, which it may be)– the Post Nut Syndrome. There is no way I will introduce my friend’s little sister to a bunch of heathenish men.
Surprisingly, Tiff nods like she understands. ”Girls do that too, but it doesn’t take that long to figure it out. We read people better so we know if we like someone earlier. Itâ€™s more like the Post Kiss Syndrome for us.”
Tiffany swigs the closest thing Cookers has to a chocolate martini, and reports never calling a guy she really liked after kissing him on the second date. ”It wasn’t a bad kiss or anything,” she explains. ”It’s just when he kissed me, he tried to use tongue. And I was disgusted by the thought of his tongue in my mouth. I’d never thought about it before. But I knew if I didn’t want to kiss him, I definitely didn’t like him and I definitely couldn’t do him so he had to go and we were done.”
Another time, Tiff was so into the man–she thought– that he was in her before she realized she didn’t really like him. She stopped him, she estimates, before the 10th stroke. ”He was a really nice guy, but his dick didn’t feel honest. I made him stop, then I asked him to leave.” She twirls her noodles around her fork and dabs them in the sauce.
”I never called him again either,â€ she continues. â€œIt didn’t have anything to do with being afraid of commitment. You just know sometimes with absolute certainty when someone is wrong for you. It hits different people at different times.” She pops a wad of food into her mouth and shrugs. â€œYou can’t knock your boys because they discover that way late. You know better than anyone that men are slow. It’s unfair to blame them for being what they are.”
I laugh, but Baby Tiff is right, I think. I am being too hard on the fellas. I know I owe them an apology (I barked on Gary for his ”I’ll still hit it’ comment.) I don’t know what to say right now, but Tiff does.
”So um…” She wipes her mouth with a napkin, throws it down on the table like a chall-unge! (Cosby episode) and looks at me pointedly. ”So when do I get to meet the great men, A.?”
God, I love this kid.
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